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A review by stephwd
Ghostwritten by David Mitchell
5.0
‘Ghostwritten’ is David Mitchell’s first novel (pre ‘Cloud Atlas’, which remains one of my favourite novels of all time despite the slightly dodgy film version that, as anticipated, failed to capture its epic style and generic melting pot of flavours). Yet this is a novel that announces Mitchell as a formidable literary force – a writer who refuses to follow convention of either linear plot or form. In fact, it is actually a series of 9 short stories that are intelligently woven together like the Lady of Shalott’s ‘magic web’ of delights.
It demands an attentive reader who must act as a kind of detective recognising the ways in which the stories (although seemingly entirely disparate) are actually subtly connected through imagery and narrative echoes. Yet this is not merely an intellectual exercise, there is such aesthetic beauty and poetry to Mitchell’s writing that demands the reader savour every word, every symbol, every nuance of his language – it announces itself as a work of art and Mitchell as a stunning writing.
What is also amazing is Mitchell’s ability to write in so many different voices. He is able to capture the banter of Bat Segundo – the late night radio chat show host with all his clichéd one liners and personal middle aged angst at the same time as Quasar, a Japanese cult member mentally meandering through the landscape of his mind. No voice is the same and his writing seems to have the ability to embody his characters (whether human or not) and make them entirely distinct. The scale of this novel is also epic. Much like ‘Cloud Atlas’ for which this seems to be the forerunner (Louisa Del Rey even makes a brief appearance for example and there are other recognisable connections), Mitchell covers a vast array of landscapes. He takes us on a journey from Japan, where he is able to capture the chaos of the stifling commuters jostling for space and the magic of the rural mountainscape and then to an art gallery in Russia followed swiftly by the disparate boroughs of London that were made at once familiar and yet entirely new as he forces us to see the worlds he creates with new eyes. Moreover, he seems to know each intimately and paint these worlds for the reader in a way that is at once both beautiful and often painfully realistic.
Yet at the heart of all this is a spiritual or moral dilemma about our ability to create our own worlds and stories and to what extent we are truly in control of our destiny and to what extent we are responsible for the destiny of others or indeed our planet. "The world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed."
I don’t want to write too much about this novel because it is so complex, it cannot really be defined by a review and I also feel my own words ultimately fall short in comparison to Mitchell’s creative genius. This is a novel that is inventive, unique, intellectual, philosophical and at heart, deeply beautiful and emotionally engaging. It took me a long time to read – a period of months, which is unusual for me as I tend to whip my way through novels. However, this is a novel that deserves time and contemplation as there are so many layers of meaning and so much to stop and appreciate like a beautiful work of art that seems to deliver something new on each re-examination and on each new page. I may still prefer ‘Cloud Atlas’ with its stronger narrative drive and more distinct characterisation and generic mix, but this is a very close second and utterly wonderful in its own right.
It demands an attentive reader who must act as a kind of detective recognising the ways in which the stories (although seemingly entirely disparate) are actually subtly connected through imagery and narrative echoes. Yet this is not merely an intellectual exercise, there is such aesthetic beauty and poetry to Mitchell’s writing that demands the reader savour every word, every symbol, every nuance of his language – it announces itself as a work of art and Mitchell as a stunning writing.
What is also amazing is Mitchell’s ability to write in so many different voices. He is able to capture the banter of Bat Segundo – the late night radio chat show host with all his clichéd one liners and personal middle aged angst at the same time as Quasar, a Japanese cult member mentally meandering through the landscape of his mind. No voice is the same and his writing seems to have the ability to embody his characters (whether human or not) and make them entirely distinct. The scale of this novel is also epic. Much like ‘Cloud Atlas’ for which this seems to be the forerunner (Louisa Del Rey even makes a brief appearance for example and there are other recognisable connections), Mitchell covers a vast array of landscapes. He takes us on a journey from Japan, where he is able to capture the chaos of the stifling commuters jostling for space and the magic of the rural mountainscape and then to an art gallery in Russia followed swiftly by the disparate boroughs of London that were made at once familiar and yet entirely new as he forces us to see the worlds he creates with new eyes. Moreover, he seems to know each intimately and paint these worlds for the reader in a way that is at once both beautiful and often painfully realistic.
Yet at the heart of all this is a spiritual or moral dilemma about our ability to create our own worlds and stories and to what extent we are truly in control of our destiny and to what extent we are responsible for the destiny of others or indeed our planet. "The world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed."
I don’t want to write too much about this novel because it is so complex, it cannot really be defined by a review and I also feel my own words ultimately fall short in comparison to Mitchell’s creative genius. This is a novel that is inventive, unique, intellectual, philosophical and at heart, deeply beautiful and emotionally engaging. It took me a long time to read – a period of months, which is unusual for me as I tend to whip my way through novels. However, this is a novel that deserves time and contemplation as there are so many layers of meaning and so much to stop and appreciate like a beautiful work of art that seems to deliver something new on each re-examination and on each new page. I may still prefer ‘Cloud Atlas’ with its stronger narrative drive and more distinct characterisation and generic mix, but this is a very close second and utterly wonderful in its own right.